First Times
by The Sylver Lining
Summary: This world is full of new things, and everyone has at least one they're passionate about. Some brief looks at the Manhattan clan discovering parts of the 20th century that fascinate, inspire, terrify, and most of all, give hope.


After the adventure in the kitchen, Brooklyn was well prepared for innocuous-looking things with knobs and dials to explode with light and energy. He watched over Hudson's shoulder until he picked up the gist of the box whose glass lens showed colorful, exciting things he never imagined. For a few hours it was amazing. Beyond magic, it was exhilarating and mesmerizing and very, very educational. He learned more from the TV about this new world than gliding above and watching from a distance could ever teach him. And it was bright and colorful and loud and _fun._

But after a while, he realized something. The fun wasn't really meant for him. He frowned as he watched humans sitting around talking about things he didn't understand, with unfamiliar phrases like "political agenda" or "unconstitutional." Loud, intense advertisements for things he should buy to make his life better - or would, if he could admit to the world that he existed. Shoes for people who could walk down a street without being screamed at. Cars. Vacations in the sun. Sitcoms to make him laugh - if only he got any of the jokes. Creams for people whose skin wasn't stone half the time.

And soon he felt his excitement turn to something cold and tired. He didn't belong. All of These Messages were meant for someone else, he was just intercepting them by mistake. All of them just told him what he already knew, that there was a huge, wild, noisy world of happy humans - and he wasn't invited to the party.

For a world that looked so much different than he remembered, it really hadn't changed that much.

Frustrated and disappointed, Brooklyn was about to turn away, shut the thing off and try to shake himself out of this funk that felt uncomfortably familiar - when he hit the wrong button. He pressed "channel down" instead of "off," and it turned to a station he'd never seen, with 3 letters on the screen. But then the music started, and it made Brooklyn stop cold.

_"With the lights out, it's less dangerous, here we are now, entertain us..."_

A human. Singing. But not the clean, cheery music he'd heard so far in commercial jingles and TV show themes. Eyes squeezed shut and long blonde hair falling into his face, the young human clung to the microphone like a drowning man to a life preserver. Face strained and voice rough, tight with urgency, as if nothing in the world mattered except getting out these words that burned, spitting them out like bloody teeth or broken glass. This was music, this was emotion Brooklyn had never heard - except in the anguished cries of war, or in waking up to find himself almost alone, his world a mess of crushed stone, blood and dust.

So he sat very still and listened. And the things this human with the striped sweater and screaming guitar (oh, he liked that new sound) said - God, but Brooklyn could relate.

_Stupid and contagious? _He knew that feeling, now more than ever. And so did this guy. That's what really got him - this human sang like he _knew._ It was genuine in a world of impossibly clean, shiny and fake. It was painful and raw and _real._

The song was over too soon ("oh, denial...") and Brooklyn didn't hear a word of what came after. The talking heads were back, and he had to go anyway, it was time to survey their new home for threats that came from within instead of outside. So he stepped out of the room like a human walking in a dream instead of stone, head reeling, feeling like he'd just stepped off a roller coaster (or might make that comparison once he found out what one was). Dazed and overwhelmed again, but this time in a good way. The best way.

It meant he wasn't alone. He wasn't the only person in the entire world who felt too many things at once - frustrated, alone, angry, scared, alienated, envious, confused... and now, hopeful. Rock guitars and lyrics that said the things he couldn't say. They meant he was a little more okay. He might be stupid and contagious, but he wasn't alone. There were still things for him in this new world, and there were still people who would understand. Some of them were his clan. Some of them loved him.

And he could do this. There was an entire world of wonders and horrors and hopes. He'd keep looking until he found more of them. And he'd start with more MTV.


End file.
